Only Joking
by MessyVictory
Summary: A new villain has arisen. This one, smarter than most, has gained Batman's trust. Now he's after the Joker and Harley Quinn, who find themselves in a compromising position.  Based on 50 one-word writing prompts.
1. Chapter 1:  Threat

This isn't the first time I've been faced with a dilemma, though it's usually something less daunting-like whether or not to kill Batman. Had I known, on that fateful day during my internship at Arkham, that I'd be _here_...

You know, I probably would have made the same decision, because believe it or not, I've been happy. The Joker certainly has...interesting ways of showing affection, but would you expect someone like him to be capable of cuddly, romantic love? I should say not. But he does love me. You might ask me how I know that. For starters, he hasn't tried to kill me...much. I know how he is. He's kept me around this long, and every now and again he'll show that he enjoys my company. Sometimes there's even a tender moment, however minuscule.

But you're right, whoever you are. He's a difficult one to love. My heart...I'll never understand entirely why it chose him, but here we are. It's complicated and exhausting. But we've had some really good times. And I'm _happy_.

But now all of that is being threatened.

The bonds on my wrists...I regain consciousness of them as I slip out of my daydream, and the gag in my mouth hurts. It's not made out of cloth-it's made of metal. Something metal. Steel wool? I don't dare move my mouth or try to scream. I've already learned my lesson from that. The room is dark, and the floor is cold and wet, and the whole place smells like feces, blood, and piss. The only sounds are what I assume to be rats scuttling about.

What, you may ask, is my dilemma? What decision could I possibly have to make in the current predicament?

They've got the Joker, too, you see. Who? No one you know. Someone working with Batman, but what he doesn't know is that they want him dead, too. I don't know what their ultimate goal is, and I don't care. Not now. Right now I've got to focus. I know that if I try and escape, they'll find me and kill me. My hope is that I can find the Joker first, and free him. He's stronger than I am. Smarter. He has more of a reason to live.

After a few minutes of finagling I manage to free my hands. I don't bother with my gag yet. I quickly unbind my ankles and stand up. My legs are wobbly, as I've been here several days without food or water, and without sleep. I'm weak, and I know that will work against me. I circle the room, feeling the walls as I go, searching for a door.

There isn't one.

I'm tempted to give up, but that last image I have of Mr. J flashes before my eyes again. He looked so helpless-strapped to a table, unconscious. Helpless.

I feel around my cell once more, and resolve to check the floor for something. The floor is as doorless as the walls, and I sit once more, thinking._How the hell did I get in here?_I'd been on a table near to the Joker when they injected me with a tranquilizer, and I woke up here. I don't even know how much time passed between the two events.

The rats. I hear them again. It occurs to me that they aren't in my cell, but in the walls. Or, rather, in the ceiling.

_The ceiling!_

The ceiling itself is quite low, and if I stand on my toes I can brush it with my fingertips. So I do just that. I walk around the cell for what seems like ten minutes before I find anything. A tiny loop. I stick my finger through and yank. And yank. And yank. It gives way after a bit and a plank of wood falls, whapping me on the shoulder.

Light fills the room, and I squint for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust. There is a hole in the ceiling. Hope fills me and feels like a drug, and my adrenaline rushes. I get a small burst of strength and jump, grabbing the edge of the floor above me and pulling. My arm strength isn't its best right now, but I manage. After a minute or two, I find myself lying on a carpet in a room filled with light and sweet smelling air.

It's a bathroom. There's no way of replacing the floorboard, so I ignore it and stand up, only to see myself reflected in a mirror. I look awful, as I'd expected. They chopped off most of my hair when I got here, thinking that would be traumatic for me. It wasn't. I no longer have makeup on, but am dirty and sweaty. They've got me in some sort of dingy white nightgown. But I'm focused on my gag. It's definitely metal.

Sighing through my nose, I exit the bathroom slowly and begin my search.


	2. Chapter 2:  Empire

I have no concept of time. It could be broad daylight for all I know. There are no windows to speak of, and I've yet to happen upon a clock. I just keep on trucking, praying that no one has yet learned of my escape. And that no one will cross my path. Not yet. I need time. As much time as possible.

Before entering any room, I listen at the door. Then I listen a while longer before poking my head through the tiniest crack I can manage. If I determine the coast is clear, I flee to the nearest door. I do this for what feels like hours before I spot something hopeful. A door with a sign that bears the ever-recognizable 'warning: dangerous chemicals' symbol. Considering this is supposed to be a printing press, that sign is a bit out of place. It seems a bit too obvious, but were they really expecting me to escape?

_Oh well_, I think. It's the only thing I've got. And grappling onto any hope I can is what keeps me moving forward. The door is locked, I discover. I need a key card to swipe. My heart sinks because I know what I've got to do. There won't be a key card just lying around in a drawer. The owners of those cards keep them on lanyards around their necks. I saw them. So I've got to find someone with a card. And I've got to steal their card.

But how? This building is huge, and I haven't much time. I don't know where to start.

_Unless..._

Unless I make them come to me.

Retracing my steps, I find the door I skipped earlier, marked "Security Control Room." There's a PA system, along with security camera monitors. I try to smile, but my gag slices into the corners of my mouth and reminds me I've got work to do. I examine each monitor. There are empty rooms and rooms filled with people. The director is asleep on a couch in his study with officers standing guard. In a bathroom toward the entrance of a building, there is a man sitting on the john, reading a magazine. I squint and zoom in a bit.

_There it is. _My heart races and I thank whatever god there may be when I spot the telltale lanyard. I reach for the PA microphone and set it for that bathroom. (It's a good thing these guys are hi-tech. I mean, honestly. Who makes their PA system _that _specific? But hey, I'm not complaining.) I'm just about to hit the Speak button when I remember that I can't speak.

Reaching around to the back of my head, I gingerly finger the metal thing, finding some puzzling latches. It comes off rather easily, but I have to remove the thing carefully, as some of the severed skin has begun to scab around the sharp metal. Examining the gag, I now realize why it was so painful. Not only is it a band of sharp metal about 2 inches wide, but on the side facing me, there's another ridge of sharp metal, meant especially to cut my skin.

Tossing aside the contraption and ignoring my pain, I grab the microphone and start speaking to the defecating employee.

"You there, on the john," I say with as much cheer as I can muster. The man starts and drops his magazine to his lap. It slides to the floor. "Yes, you. I escaped. I got yer director up here at gunpoint. In the security room. I got my eye on every room in this place. Yer gonna come up here to me now or he gets shot. I might shoot 'im in the knee. I might shoot 'im in the head."

"Let me hear him so I know he's alive," the man said quietly.

"I ain't gonna do that," I say and laugh. "Yer jus' gonna hafta trust me. You got five minutes. No pit stops."

I click off the microphone and sit back, satisfied. He remains seated for a moment, and then covers himself with his magazine as he rights himself and stands up. He glances at the camera once more.

"Good boy," I say. "I'm waiting."

He sighs and leaves the room. I follow him with my eyes, moving from computer screen to computer screen, avoiding everyone he comes in contact with. Could this really be working? How is this so easy?

Minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and my heart leaps. I grab the heaviest thing I can find-an unplugged monitor-and stand next to the door, pressed against the wall.

"Come on in," I call. And the door opens slowly.

As soon as the man's head comes into view, I hurl the monitor. It comes in contact with his head, but it's only enough to knock him over. He's still conscious, and I pounce. Terror is in his eyes, and I smile, even though it hurts. I will find the Joker.

"I don't have the director," I tell him, pinching a fat cheek. "But you brought me just what I needed." After taking the lanyard off of the scared man, I cradle his face in my hands and plant a kiss on his mouth. Then I snap his neck.

There's blood on his face from my kiss.

Leaving him on the ground, I take his card in hand and run as fast as I can-which isn't that fast, given my condition-to the locked door. I swipe the card too enthusiastically and it buzzes negatively at me, flashing red. I frown and swipe again, more slowly this time, and a tiny ding tells me I've gained access. The door is heavy, but I manage to heave it open.

It's a hallway. The good news is, every door has a window on it, so I can eliminate most of the doors immediately.

There is a door at the end of the hallway-well, almost at the end-that makes me stop. I can't breathe. I swipe the card and enter, nearly falling to the ground. Because that's where he is. On the ground.

Dead.

Dead?

I can't really tell. He's bloody. And his eyes are closed. He doesn't seem to be breathing.

But then again, I'm not breathing either. How can I? How can I breathe when my puddin' is lying there, probably dead, and I'm alive?

I crawl to where he is, and I cup his face in my hand gently, feeling the tears that I thought had run dry come back to my eyes. I let out a choking sob and I feel joints all giving way as I collapse fully.

What a sight this must be. We were once the most fearsome duo in Gotham, causing chaos everywhere, finding amusement in all of it. Being constantly at war with Batman. Coming close to winning a few times. Coming close to losing sometimes, too. But it was always interesting. Always fun.

"We really built quite an empire, didn't we?" I say, lifting my head up a bit and staring at his stoic face. The physical pain I felt has gone, or at least I can't notice it anymore. I can't, because the pain of him being gone is far too great. It's consuming me. I'm drowning in it. I don't want to be alive if he's not. I lay my head back down, waiting for them to find me and kill me, too.

"Yeah, we sure did."

I don't believe I actually heard it. Not for a moment. I thought it was my own mind. I don't believe it until I feel a light tough on my back. His hand. _His hand_.

I push myself up once again to look at his face, expecting nothing but the lifelessness of a moment ago.

His eyes are open, and he's smiling at me faintly.


	3. Chapter 3: Falter

We're running through the halls again, though I'm lagging behind considerably. We're both injured, but he's got longer legs and more endurance. I'd tried to grab onto his hand when we started, but he shook me off and kept going. I figure things are back to normal. Or at least they're headed in that direction.

By now, the "staff" should be realizing that their plan is faltering. They would have spotted their dead officer by the security room. They would have discovered that I've escaped my cell. And lastly, their worst fear would be realized; the Joker is alive and no longer in that sterile room.

For an evil genius, this guy didn't plan very well, that's for sure. They would've made it impossible for me to escape. Harder to get to Mr. J. There would've been someone in that security room, watching the both of us. My cell was on that monitor. There was no reason I should've been able to escape.

Unless their plan isn't faltering at all. Unless we're doing exactly what they planned us to do.

"Mistah J!" I cry, stopping in my tracks. The Joker runs a bit further and then turns around, looking impatient. "I think this is a trap. They knew we'd escape."

"Of course they knew, stupid girl!" He snaps. "But we're a step ahead of them. They anticipated _me _escaping. Not you. And they didn't think you'd 'save' me. They figured I'd get out and come save you."

The thought crosses my mind and I wonder whether he would have done that at all, but I decide that he would have and we keep running. I don't ask him what his plan is. He's got a plan. He must have a plan. If he doesn't have one, then _I _have to come up with one. I was feeling pretty good about my last plan until I realized it wasn't really my plan at all.

"But you were unconscious!" I shout in protest, running as fast as I can to keep up with him and his long legs.

"That was a fluke," he calls back. "I yanked out the wrong needle. I would've come to eventually."

Again I'm tempted to wonder whether he would have come to save me, and again I push the thought aside, assuring myself that he would have. We run a while longer and my legs feel weaker than ever. Searing pain afflicts my face and most of the rest of me, but I press onward. I know I can't go much longer, so I pray to nothing in particular that our destination is close.

"Not much further," he shouts, as if reading my mind. I smile for a moment, but pain restores my frown. He always seems to know what I'm thinking. Or perhaps it's the fact that I've been letting out a whimpering grunt every five or six unsteady steps.

We approach a door, and I slow to a stop, breathing heaving and clutching my side. The door has a glowing Exit sign above it. Is it really that easy? Certainly it's not this easy. The Joker looks around and then back at me. He's almost smiling.

"You're starting to look like me," he says. I'm confused for a moment, but then he opens the door. A draft swallows the room, stinging my skin and refreshing it at the same time.

"What a view, Harley."I take a step forward and look out. We're about six stories up, and there's no balcony. The view is certainly nice, I'll admit. It's dead silent, and the sun is rising or setting at the horizon, painting slashes of gold, red, pink and purple across the sky, extending above the building. I look down: water. A vast expanse of water glistens peacefully below, still as glass. It's beautiful. Who would have guessed that atrocities such as this could occur on such a beautiful night...or morning, whichever it is. I figure it's probably dusk.

What's your plan, Mistah J?" I ask, not looking back at him.

"Well..."

"Well?"

The Joker looks at me for a long moment, and I take one for myself to see just what they've done to him. His hair hasn't lost its color, but it's grown. I wonder how that's possible; we've only been here a few days.

_Haven't we?_

His face is washed of the makeup, and his scars are visible. Not glorified with red makeup. Real. Severed, healed, puckered scar tissue. He also looks thin. Well, thinner than normal. And he's in a hospital gown, like me.

"You really are starting to look like me, kid," he says, smiling a little.

I frown, confused. What could he possibly mean? I consider asking him, but the look on his face instructs me otherwise. He's always been peculiarly hard to read, but this time it's different. It's as though suddenly every emotion he could possibly feel had been simply hidden beneath the makeup, and now that it is gone, all is in plain sight. Sadness, regret, hope, terror, and yet genius. He has a plan. And a good one. But I have a feeling I'm not going to like it.

"I'm sorry, Harle," he says and grabs my hand. I take this chance and pull myself closer to him, gently wrapping my arms around him. I don't even know why. All I know is that I never want to let go, but I know I have to.

Arms around one another, we find ourselves standing close to the edge of the doorway, the distance between us and the water's surface seems like miles, and though I'm holding onto the Joker, I feel distant from him, too. What is it that has to happen? Is it what I think?

"Why are you sorry, Mistah J?" I ask, dreading the answer.

He plants a slow, soft kiss on the top of my head, half-smiles once more, and holds my arms firmly. Then, with one swift motion, he heaves me out the door.


End file.
